Gaitskill laid his hand upon Diada’s arm, and she turned and looked at him with a suspicious glance, like the expression in the eyes of a dog when petted by a stranger. Hitch backed away.
“Look out, Marse Tom!” Hitch howled. “She’s gittin’ ready to kick!”
In a moment Diada’s eyes changed to a milder expression, and Gaitskill patted her on the shoulder about as he would caress the side of a horse. Seeing this, Hitch crept up nearer, put out his hand and touched Diada’s wrist.
“She feels like a shore-’nuff, nachel-bawn nigger, Marse Tom,” he exclaimed. “Kin she talk?”
“Yes,” Gaitskill told him. “But she can’t talk our language, Hitch. She hasn’t been in this country long. You’ll have to make signs to her and talk to her that way.”
“Ax her to say somepin’, Marse Tom!” Hitch begged. “Lemme hear how she sounds!”
Gaitskill had not the remotest idea how to make her talk; in fact, he had never heard the sound of her voice. But he did not intend to reveal his ignorance to Hitch Diamond.
“No,” he said. “She can talk in the kitchen. Take her around to Hopey.”
Hitch walked up, crooked his forefinger, hung it lightly in the sleeve of Diada’s dress, and murmured:
“Come along with me, Sister Diada—foller along atter brudder Hitchie Diamond—us’ll go git some hot vittles!”